


Pocket!John: Kidnapped!

by RebeccaOTool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Abuse, Art, Dark, Fanart, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Illustrations, Inspired, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Macrophilia, Microphilia, Non-Consensual, Nudity, Pocket John, Pocket!John, Porn, Porn Without Plot, Shrinking, Torture, a little plot, arkhamsmaddness, shrank, shrunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaOTool/pseuds/RebeccaOTool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pocket!John has been kidnapped by Moriarty. Copious amounts of porn and a little plot. Based on Arkhamsmaddness's amazing Pocket!John art (included in the story, with the author's consent).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pocket!John art by arkhamsmaddness](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/35981) by arkhamsmaddness. 



> After seeing all of arkhamsmaddness AMAZING Pocket!John work, I just had to write a fic based off the drawings (see ‘em all here http://arkhamsmaddness.tumblr.com/post/49206563476/as-per-request-from-several-anons-a-pocket-john) Be warned, this is going to get pretty adult, which is a BIG departure for me. There's a LOT of nude drawings and sexual content. BE AWARE.
> 
> Also, still working on my other stuff: this is the product of many months of work that congealed into a full story.

“Whatever bloody game you’re playing, I’m not interested!”

John might have been shouting at a brick wall for all the attention Moriarty paid him. It wasn’t bad enough that Sherlock had shrunk him ( “Honestly, Mycroft should have known better than to ask me to investigate the scientists at Baskerville if he didn’t want me taking anything home. I’m sure they’ll find a way to bring you back to size.” the detective had said with a suspicious lack of interest in John’s predicament), it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been treated like a child ever since (when he was back to normal he was going to put Sherlock over his knee and spank him until the man screamed—oh hell, that sounded so wrong), no, none of that was bad enough.

Moriarty had to come along and kidnap him as well.

He struggled fiercely, but at only four and a half inches high he was no match for Moriarty. It didn’t help his already maimed pride when the criminal secured him to a piece of note paper with scotch tape. His arms were pinned above his head, his waist was strapped down, and well as his right leg. As an afterthought Moriarty stuck thumbtacks the size of his fist through his shirt. Said shirt was pinned so that it exposed everything under his neck.

Moriarty drew out a pair of scissors longer than John body. He clamped down of a scream as the blades came close, snickering near his feet. The shafts of steel parted. John closed his eyes, trying not to think about what was coming.

To his surprise, something tugged gently on his pant leg. He opened his eyes and saw Moriarty snipping the fabric right to the waistband.

“What are you doing?” He jerked his free leg away from the blades, but Moriarty paid no more attention to this than anything else. The fabric cut, he switched the scissors to John’s free leg. John thought about kicking, but made himself stay still. Moriarty could easily cut his leg off with that thing.

With a quick jab, Moriarty skewered the fabric, and slowly slid it off John’s leg.

John tried not to gasp as the reality hit him. His shirt wasn’t pinned haphazardly to expose his shrunken body. Moriarty was stripping him this way on purpose.

Sweat began to trickle down his brow. “Sherlock will find you, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Moriarty grinned and him and John’s heart began beating double quick. “But not before I’m done with you, pet.”

John twitched in terror as the scissors slid up his leg, the dull side of the blade pressed to his skin. He had no idea how Moriarty moved so precisely, but soon the blades were stretching his skivvies away from his body. “No, please, don’t—!”

To his amazement, Moriarty withdrew the scissors. The red fabric snapped back into place. He was still clothed—for now.

“Please really is the magic word.” Moriarty purred. John watched in amazement as he removed the tacks and the tape from his leg.

His heart fell when Moriarty peeled his shirt off with the rest of the restraints.

John stood up and backed away as far as the small table allowed. “What are you doing?”

Moriarty watched him, eyes dark and calm. “Why, I’m inspecting my new pet. My very own Pocket John.”

“I’m not your pet!” John snarled, last straw well beyond snapped. “You’re a fucking idiot lunatic bastard—”

John’s snarl ended in a squeak as Moriarty snatched him in one hand. He was momentarily confused—why had Moriarty grabbed him from the front? His back was exposed. He twisted his head about trying to get a glimpse of his captor. “What are you doing?!”

“I am not an idiot.” Moriarty sounded calm, but his face was another story. “And I’m going to give you a little reminder for the next time.”

Something solid connected with his rear, producing a solid THWACK! John let out a very unmanly screech of surprise. It hadn’t hurt too much, but it startled the hell out of him. “Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME—YOW!”

The next blow was sharper. John thrashed and shrieked, but Moriarty kept right on.

‘What is the bloody fascination with spanking me?’ John’s cheeks, both sets, were turning red from the sheer humiliation, not to mention the spanks. After about a minute, Moriarty finally let up. John tried to remember if any of his army training had prepared him for this amount of sheer humiliation.

‘Not even close.’ He felt something tug the skivvies down. “Oi, stop that!”

“Just checking the damage.” Moriarty sounded creepily tender. “Don’t want to cause permanent injury to my little pet.”

John swallowed hard as he noticed something else in Moriarty’s hand. A ridiculously big Q-Tip.

“Hmm, my my. Just as red as your underwear.” Moriarty chuckled. “Such a cute ass. No wonder Sherlock fancies you.”

“I—he—we—he doesn’t…” John’s protests trailed off as Moriarty licked the bud of the Q-Tip. “You’re…you’re not…”

“Want to bet?” Moriarty asked, and suddenly spanking was the least of John’s worries.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets into non-consensual territory. The art is EXPLICIT. There is, as local radio personality Lisa Way says 'finale stuff.' Be aware.

John whimpered as the cotton bud swirled around inside him. His traitorous body was responding to the touches despite the horror. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to keep involuntary moans from escaping his throat.

“Is my little pet enjoying himself?” Moriarty’s voice was excited and jerky. John didn’t want to know what he was doing.

“Stop…” He groaned, nerves on fire. “Please stop.”

Sudden vibrations assaulted him from the front. John’s eyes flew open, and his jaw dropped. A pencil the size of a tree trunk was jittering between his legs. “What the hell—”

A sharp grinding noise cut him off. Before him, the pencil was slowly vanishing into an electric pencil sharpener.

“What the hell are you doing?!” John’s voice was high from terror and the waves of tension gripping his body. His toes skimmed the floor. “Damnit Moriarty, let me down!”

“Oh, I think not.” Moriarty slipped a thick cord under his arms and jerked them back behind him. John’s toes scraped across the tabletop as the pencil inched forward, but he couldn’t get off.

It was all too much. He was being stimulated on all fronts, terror locking his muscles. As Moriarty smirked down at him, John felt himself orgasming wildly. Not that he would have enjoyed it, even if he wasn’t about to die. Tears spurted from his eyes, blurring his vision. Shame, rage, fear, and sexual release…

John whimpered as the pencil came closer to the mechanical beast. His dick jittered, and to his horror he felt himself start to get hard again. ‘What the fuck is wrong with me?’

“Oh, poor pet, you must be so frightened.” Moriarty jerked on the cable (a shoelace, John saw with dismay), pulling him back a smidge. “To scared to beg?”

John trembled, unable to form an answer. Sherlock. He’d give anything to be home and safe in Sherlock’s pale hands, even if he was stuck at this size for the rest of his life. Anything to be away from this madman.

In a few seconds it wouldn’t matter; he’d be…the pencil sharpener would…well, he’d bleed out quickly anyway.

He let out a whimper as Moriarty jerked him back, free of the stub of pencil right before it vanished into the sharpener.

“Oh, poor little pet. Did you really think the fun was over?” Moriarty removed the Q-Tip with a soft pop. “We’re just beginning.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some months later.
> 
> (WARNING: More nude drawings. Non-consensual acts drawn by the wonderful Arkhamsmaddness)

How long had he been under this madman’s care? It felt like months. It felt like forever. And yet each new torment was just as fresh and unexpected as the first. It was as if Moriarty was drawing from some unending well of creativity.

He didn’t even want to think about Christmas. The Christmas ball had merely been humiliating. The treetop, humiliating AND uncomfortable (but not nearly so big as the Q-Tip, thank God).

The candy cane licking spree may have been the worst moment of his life, and that was saying a lot.

And now it was Valentines Day (or nearly, Moriarty assured him. John had lost track of the time some time ago). Time for a new photo shoot. John didn’t want to think about whoever was seeing these, and how they were enjoying themselves. 

Had Sherlock seen? Oh God, he must have, Moriarty had probably sent him giant glossies in the post. Somehow, that was the worst thing yet. 

Moriarty opened the top of the small clear box he kept John in when he wasn’t playing, which had been less often as of late. “How are we doing today?”

"Sore." John replied curtly. He was sitting on a small block of foam that served as his mattress. He wished Moriarty had given him some clothes. Aside from costumes, he’d been mostly nude since the first day.

"Well, don’t worry. Today we’re doing something…a little special."

John’s stomach clenched around nothing: Moriarty hadn’t fed him yet today. “Sherlock—”

"Please, I don’t really care to here your Sherlock rant again." Moriarty’s expression changed in an instant from placid joy to anger. "He’s not coming, understand?”

"He is." John felt a small tingle of pride somewhere very deep down. He could at least remind Moriarty of that. "He is coming, and you know it."

"He is NOT!" Moriarty slammed his fist just outside the box, making the tabletop quake.

John cried out, unable to help himself. Everything was so loud.

"Sherlock is not coming, and do you understand why?" Moriarty struggled to regain his composure. "Because you were a burden, John.”

John remained quiet, not wanting to enrage him further.

"When you were normal, you were at least an amusing distraction. Now you need to be taken care of like a pet. A pet he didn’t want in the first place."

John’s mind flew. He was lying. Clearly. Sherlock didn’t consider him a burden. He would have said so. He…

But then John remembered the first few days. Trying to live normally. Trying to do a blog and feeling like a poor Twister player.

Feeling like he was starving, and trying desperately to get Sherlock’s attention. And his subsequent failure to make tea and the horror that followed.

Granted, that seemed like nothing compared to his current predicament. But it did lend a certain credibility to what Moriarty was saying.

"So, with Sherlock you were a burden. With me, you’re more like a treasured…pet." Moriarty reached down and picked him up. John didn’t struggle: he didn’t want to be squeezed again.

"You even have a captive audience." Moriarty cooed, walking into the blank room with the camera. "In fact today, we’re doing a few of their requests."

"Requests?" John swallowed hard. "These people see what’s happening to me and come up with new things?"

"In spades." Moriarty grinned. "And without them, there’d be no point to this…aside from my own amusement."

John shuddered.

"So John: are you ready for a romantic candlelit dinner?"

No. No, no no no no no no.

John squeaked in protest as Moriarty hog tied him to a candle the size of a tree. Then the madman placed him on his back, and lit a candle.

"No!" John tried not to move. The fire was so close he could feel it.

"Oh John, I’m not going to burn you up. You’re so damned vanilla." Moriarty tutted. "Just lay still for a few minutes."

John shrieked as the wax pattered onto his nude body. The clinical doctor in him realized he wouldn’t get seriously burned from the wax: it would just hurt a lot.

It inched down his arms and legs as Moriarty scattered rose petals the size of fans across the table. By the time it hit his abused bottom, tears were running down his cheeks.

"Say cheese!" Moriarty smiled and stepped behind the camera. This would be a wonderful valentine to his…fans.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued.

BTW, not bashing the fandom who delight in this: I submitted ideas for torture too!


	4. Chapter 4

He hadn’t wanted to do it. But that wasn’t anything new. He hadn’t wanted to do any of this.

There really was no end to Moriarty’s creativity. Or his audience’s. John really didn’t care who was supplying the ideas any more. It was clear none of them were going to help him.

He tried not to remember the shameful helplessness of letting Moriarty balance a massive cherry on his head.

At this point, it was just about surviving. Rebellion went out the window when Moriarty stopped feeding him. He’d been weak and compliant by the time Moriarty was ready for the candy-coated photo shoot. His fingers were barely able to grip the massive candy heart Moriarty made him hold.

At least it had only been whipped cream.

John lay curled up in a ball on the small square of foam, wishing he wasn’t naked, wasn’t here, wasn’t the size of an action figure. 

But most of all, wishing it was over. 

His thoughts drifted idly to Sherlock. It was painfully clear what had happened; he’d seen the photos. John’s cheeks burned with shame. Sherlock would have come by now, if he was coming. 

He wasn’t coming.

John buried his face in the spongy mattress and tried desperately to hold his sobs. Moriarty was right. He’d become a burden, and thanks to Moriarty, an embarrassment. Being this size had destroyed whatever sort of relationship he had with the detective.

Why did it hurt so much? Why did it feel like he was losing so much more than a friend?

John finally cried. The taste of sour-sweet whipped cream and chocolate was still on his tongue.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Belated Valentines Day! (This was originally published on the 14th, so...yeah)

Sherlock stared at the tiny, nude figure, feeling numb.

John was curled up on a yellowed cube of foam in a small plexiglass box. There were plenty of air holes, none big enough for him to crawl through. A small padlock kept the lid bolted down. His back was to Sherlock, and he gave no sign that he’d heard the man enter the room. Or even that he was awake.

“John.” Sherlock struggled to get the name out. All the months of searching, of pure terror every time a new photograph showed up in the mail (usually a few days before it made its way through the small internet community that traded in such things), and the even worse terror that the photographs would stop, that he would lose John forever.

Not that it made what the photos contained any easier to bear.

John, terrified, John, violated. John, at the mercy of a sadistic madman.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He kept his voice carefully level. There was no telling what state John was in. He looked a little thinner, but not starved. His body was free of cuts and bruises. The skin of his posterior was slightly reddened.

“John.”

The body twitched and curled in a little tighter. Sherlock wanted to rip the lock off the box, snatch John out and flee before Moriarty or his goons came back. But he didn’t dare.

John slowly sat up and turned around. His eyes grew wide. “Sh-Sherlock?”

His voice was the same high squeak Sherlock had last heard months ago. He knelt down and started fiddling with the lock. It would be quicker to take the whole box away. But he needed to get John out of there. He couldn’t bear the sight.

“I’ll have it in a moment.” Sherlock tried to find the words. What the hell could he say? How could he possibly apologize? He’d treated John like a child, and then let him get kidnapped. There was no apology.

He’d been terrified. The whole time. He’d acted like it was no big deal, like John being small enough to tuck away in his pocket was a mere annoyance, to be ignored until it was dealt with. But he’d been terrified. Terrified that such a thing was possible. Terrified that his own Brother had known about it, sanctioned it, and been present for some of the tests. Terrified that what he’d snatched from Baskerville and carelessly left lying around the flat would leave John forever four and a half inches tall. Terrified that he would hurt or kill his only friend.

So he pretended he was bored. And then he’d come home and John was gone.

He’d torn the apartment apart. Literally. The furniture had been shredded in his pursuit of the missing doctor. Holes in the walls, the carpet ripped up. Mrs. Hudson had had a fit. And then he’d come to the inescapable conclusion: John hadn’t hidden to panic Sherlock, or from a predator, or anything else. He’d been taken away.

Even before the pictures had come, he’d known. Who else but Moriarty would take him?

He hadn’t guessed the depths Moriarty would sink to. Not only doing these horrible things to John, but issuing the photos on the internet to a small, rabid fandom secreted among those who followed his adventures. It wasn’t for monetary gain: Moriarty just liked having an audience.

Sherlock banished these thoughts from his mind and the lock snapped open. John was still sitting on the cube of foam. There was a watery glitter in his eyes. Sherlock swallowed hard. He didn’t dare just reach in and pick John up; not after everything the doctor had suffered.

“Are you alright?” Stupid. Stupid! Of course he wasn’t alright. But it was what people said. Sentiment.

John’s face twitched in a strange way that Sherlock couldn’t identify. To his surprise, John laid back down and curled up. “You’re not here.”

“What?” For once, he had no idea what was happening.

“You. Are not. Here.” John’s voice had dropped a few decibels, and Sherlock strained to catch the words. “This is another dream.”

Another. _Another_. Of course John had dreamed of rescue, of freedom. Sherlock’s heart thudded in his chest painfully. “Why do you think that?”

“Because Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t bloody ask how I was doing.”

Sherlock winced. Did John think he cared so little? “Is that all?”

“No.” John’s voice wobbled noticeably, on the verge of tears. “Sherlock isn’t coming for me.”

Sherlock felt like someone had slapped him. “Why would you think that?”

“If he was coming, he would have come by now.” John’s voice hitched again.

Sherlock wanted to blurt out how he’d searched, how Moriarty had moved locations, how close he’d come, only to find an abandoned warehouse with a new picture waiting for him. His tongue lay dead in his mouth.

“And he’s seen the photographs.” John’s voice was small, so very small.

Oh God.

John thought Sherlock had seen the photographs and decided…what Sherlock, couldn’t even fathom. He was too embarrassed to retrieve the detective from Moriarty’s clutches? He didn’t care?

Or that John was ruined from the months of abuse that Moriarty had heaped on his body.

His stomach clenched and Sherlock fought not to throw up. Moriarty had told John that he was worthless, abused him, and sold his dignity on the internet. And now, John believed his lies.

John said something so quietly that Sherlock couldn’t make it out. He tried to find something meaningful, something reassuring. All he managed was “John, speak up, I can’t hear you.”

At this, the Doctor’s head whipped around. “What?”

“Your voice is too quiet. I couldn’t—”

John jumped off the foam, face still awash with tears. “Oh my God, it’s really you.”

Sherlock laid his hand down in the cube, palm up. “I’m sorry it took so long, John.”

John all but teleported into his hand, clinging to his fingers, body shaking with pent-up sobs finally let out. “Oh God, Sherlock, I didn’t think you were ever coming, I thought—”

“I know.” Sherlock tried to find the words, but he’d suddenly lost his massive vocabulary. He drew John close to his chest and did something someone else might refer to as ‘cuddling’. John snuggled up to his chest, sobs slowly petering out, tears flowing a little slower.

“How did you know I was real?” Sherlock fumbled for something, anything to say.

Here, John rewarded him with a laugh. It was watery and weak, but it was real. “In my dreams I don’t have to speak up to be heard.”

The joy and despair reached heretofore unknown heights. He clutched John to his beating heart, careful not to hurt him, but clutching as tightly as he dared. “I’m sorry John. For everything I’ve done and said since this began. Since I started it. I was afraid.”

John made a small motion under his fingertips that Sherlock thought was assent. _Hoped_ was assent.

“What an adorable little picture.”

Sherlock went ridged. John trembled under his fingers. He turned slowly, rage washing over him.

Moriarty stood in the doorway, smiling benignly. “Sherlock. Took you long enough.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“Do you really need one?”

“No. I just want to hear what possible justification your twisted mind has concocted for kidnapping and raping a man.”

“It’s hardly rape. Forced sodomy at most.” Moriarty made a vague waving motion with one hand. “Besides, I was taking better care of him than you; I never forgot to feed him.”

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. “You starved him.”

“Deliberately.” Moriarty pointed out. “And only once.”

Sherlock took a single step forwards, and Moran appeared out of the shadows, gun trained on the tiny figure in Sherlock’s hands.

John closed his eyes and leaned against Sherlock’s chest. He had no more room to fear death in his small body.

“Seb, be a love and kill him if he moves again.” Moriarty edged closer.

Sherlock closed his fingers over John. “I suggest you check your phone.”

On cue, the strains of ‘Staying Alive’ rang out. Moriarty gave him a ‘really?’ sort of glare. He tapped the phone a few times.

And then his eyes went wide. “YOU—YOU DARED—”

Sherlock let a smile curl the corner of his lips. “You shouldn’t store those photos on a computer if you don’t want them getting out.”

Two pictures were currently spreading across the internet that some wag had scrawled captions on (probably Moran himself).

Moriarty looked at him, angry, panicked. He couldn’t _stand_ looking foolish. “You fucking ass.”

“There’s a lovely one of Moran spanking you with a spoon waiting in the wings, as well as several more provocative ones. If I’m not out of here in two minutes, Molly Hooper will send it to your already salivating fans.” Sherlock continued blithely. “So. What’s your move?”

Moriarty clenched his teeth. “Gun down, Seb.”

The light vanished.

John took a shuddering breath. “You… _let_ someone do this to you?”

“He’d never use a torture he hadn’t tried out.” Sherlock stepped closer. “You must tell me, was the ball gag made from a red-hot or a tic-tac?”

“Get out.” Moriarty hissed.

John’s voice was so quiet, Sherlock almost missed it. “There’s a cure.”

Sherlock froze. They were lucky to be getting out of this alive. Moriarty wasn’t about to give them the cure.

Moriarty grinned mirthlessly. “Yes, John, there is a way back to normal. Let me know if you get stuck finding it; I’d be happy to make a deal.”

Then John was shaking and Sherlock was running down the hall, desperate to get John away.

If he could ever get away.

0o0

They lay on the couch, Sherlock in his dressing gown, John in the a shirt and red skivvies: Moriarty had destroyed his only pair of pants. He lay on Sherlock’s chest, half-curled up. Sherlock’s finger stroked along his back, lightly. If John didn’t like it, he made no protest.

“What day is it?”

John’s question caught on Sherlock’s heart. “The fourteenth.”

“What month?”

Sherlock’s throat jerked, and he knew John could feel it. “February.”

John raised his head. Sherlock looked down at him, unable to find the words, forever unable to find the words. “Valentines day.”

“Yes.” It was all Sherlock could do to keep the sudden flood of apologies, reassurances, and anything else within him at bay. “It is.”

To Sherlock’s immense surprise, John stood up, walked across Sherlock’s chest, and planted a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lip. “Well. Happy Valentines Day.”

“Happy Valentines Day, John.”

0o0o0o0o0

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued…? Depends on the next drawing. But this is a good stopping point for now. Many thanks to the wonderful Arkhamsmaddness for making such wonderful Pocket!John fanart. You inspire me.


End file.
